


Running to Stand Still

by moon_stars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Bisexual John Watson, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_stars/pseuds/moon_stars
Summary: In which Sherlock and John try to rebuild and redefine their relationship.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. A Reunion

The chill of a cold needle against delicate flesh. A pinch that brings a flood of warmth. Then nothing. Bliss. 

Sherlock has always wondered if this is what it feels like to be human, to be normal. When he's high, the world suddenly slows to a lazy crawl. Or maybe it's not the world that is slowing, but the usually frenetic neurons firing every which way in his brain. 

When he's high everything becomes sensory. It's as though his body has become thoroughly divorced from the constant machinations of his mind, and he is able to revel in those things that can't be neatly categorized and organized into file folders deep in his mind palace. It's a break from the constant thinking. A cathartic reprieve in the form of raw feeling. 

When he's high, everything is still, including his beleaguered mind. Everything is so mercifully, beautifully still.

-

Hours later (Hours? Days?) a series of blunted thumps frets at the edge of Sherlock's stupor. He's suspended in a drug-induced haze, somewhere between awake and asleep. Or perhaps not between, but both simultaneously. Schrodinger's consciousness. 

The thumps begin to sharpen. The blurry borders of sound come into focus. The thumping reveals itself as frantic knocking, punctuated by an agitated voice. 

"Sherlock if you do not open this door right now I will bust it in! You know I will!" 

John. 

Sherlock lifts his head feebly, gingerly. He still feels as though he's ensconced in cotton, everything is fuzzy and surreal. On shaking legs, he manages to pull himself up off the couch and toward the shuddering door. When he opens it, he is met by an almost comical sight. John's fist is suspended in mid-air, hovering where the closed door was moments before. 

John's face tightens. He slowly returns his closed fist to his side, fingers still clenched. 

"Hello John." Sherlock moves away from the door, cautiously. His movements failing to disguise the hesitancy and fear coursing through his veins. He's lost track of how long it has been since he last saw John. Since the day Mary died. 

John hovers near the door. Sherlock can almost see the cogs of John's mind grind to a halt as he arrives at some invisible conclusion. He steels himself for a moment before gently closing the door, then pads across the floor to his familiar chair. There he almost collapses, his face suddenly looking far older than Sherlock ever remembered it looking. He impatiently motions toward the chair across from him. Sherlock obliges. 

They sit there in silence for a moment (A moment? A lifetime?). The muffled sounds of the street below form a perfectly unobtrusive soundtrack for the conversation to come. 

John takes a series of unnaturally deep breaths. A sequence of false starts. Sherlock, for once in his life, feels completely and totally at a loss for words. The fading high certainly doesn't help. He pulls his knees up to his chin, avoiding direct eye contact with John, as though doing so will stave off John's curiosity about his sobriety for at least a few minutes more. 

"You know this doesn't come easily to me, right? Trying to find the words to... to say..." John pauses, squeezes his eyes shut, continues. "Sherlock. I know what happened. Your brother has been very persistent in seeing to that. To make sure that I knew that that bullet was meant for you." John's voice trails off. Sherlock can feel John's eyes searching for his own. 

He wills himself to look up. 

John's eyes soften slightly upon finally connecting with Sherlock's. He blinks once, hard, before clearing has throat lightly. 

"I just want you to know that I... I forgive you. I know this isn't what you wanted. And I'm sure it's not been easy on you, and I certainly haven't made it easier by abandoning you." John stumbles over the words. There's a slight hint of desperation, of pleading. An apology without those two pivotal words. 

Sherlock feels himself nod slightly. "I know, John." The words come out quieter than he expected, his voice weak from days of disuse. Suddenly it feels unbearable, sitting in John's gaze. He feels as though he's under a microscope. The light is too bright, John's stare is too direct. Acutely conscious of his dry mouth, throbbing headache, and trembling limbs, Sherlock wraps himself up tighter in his own embrace in what he hopes isn't an entirely transparent attempt to evade John's searching eyes. 

"Are you ok?" John's voice is almost ominously small, gentle. It's as if he knows the power he wields by deploying those three little words. Sherlock cannot imagine that there exists a more overwhelming question couched in such simple language. 

It's almost imperceptible, but Sherlock can just barely feel the peripheries of the impending storm as it encroaches on 221B.

A frown passes over John's face as he at last draws his eyes away from Sherlock to survey the room around him. His eyes immediately lock on to the one thing Sherlock hoped he wouldn't see. The needle. 

Sherlock watches as John crumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t often listen to U2, but apparently when I do, it inspires Sherlock fan fiction.


	2. A Revelation Without Resolution

Sherlock was prepared for fury, for biting words, for raised voices. He wasn’t prepared for this.

A wave of nausea washes over him as silent sobs begin to wrack John’s body. He looks so impossibly small - face buried in hands, body folded in on itself.

The drug-induced fog swirling around in Sherlock’s mind only adds to the surreality of the moment. Conflicting emotions crash against the shore of his conscience - fear that John will never forgive him, sadness at the thought of losing his best friend, and still the smallest sense of relief at the familiar image of John sitting across from him in his old armchair.

A small whimper shakes Sherlock from his reverie, and before his mind can formulate a deduction, he feels himself rising from his chair and moving toward John.

“John?” Sherlock crouches down besides John’s chair, and tentatively places a hand on his knee. John flinches slightly, but does not look up.

“John, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock’s voice cracks, whether from disuse or emotion he doesn’t know. He can sense that somewhere in his mind, a switch has been flipped and he is now running on some kind of autopilot. It might be a side effect of the drugs, but at this moment he is grateful for it. Fully sober Sherlock is no better equipped to deal with these kinds of situations anyway.

John’s sobs soften. Slowly, he begins to unfurl himself, weather-worn hands rubbing his lined face and red eyes. His gaze focuses on some point above Sherlock, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You know,” John’s voice is heavy with exhaustion. “I think that might be the first time you’ve ever initiated any kind of physical contact with me.”

Sherlock desperately searches for even the slightest hint of levity in John’s declaration. He finds none. His hand tightens around John’s knee.

“It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to.” Even in his current state, Sherlock can’t help but wince at how desperately pleading his words come out. _Now is not the time for embarrassment_ , he chides himself. _If there were ever an opportunity to get it all out there, this would be it._

John’s gaze slips down ever so slightly as a small frown forms on his face. “Oh?”

Sherlock knows he should think through his next step thoroughly - analyze each potential response and all of the possible consequences. He knows he should, but the heroin is still coursing through his veins, rerouting his analytical impulses to some deeper and more primal part of his brain. The autopilot is fully engaged now, overriding his hesitancy.

“I love you, John.”

This time, John’s gaze lowers until it fixes directly on Sherlock. His expression is perfectly inscrutable, a skill no doubt honed through his years of living with Sherlock.

-

John is no stranger to hardship. To death, to heartbreak, to the feeling that the world around him is crumbling and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. But knowing this doesn’t make it easier. Recognizing the crushing grief and his impotence in the face of it doesn’t seem to dull it. If anything, it feels as though it’s compounding, like a snowball rolling down a hill, growing larger and larger and building up more and more speed until it inevitably crashes and breaks apart.

It’s the loss of control, he thinks, that is most unbearable. The realization that at any moment, anything and everything you know and love can be snatched away, never to be returned.

_Except, that’s not always true, is it?_ A small voice offers from the back of his mind. _The man sitting at your feet is proof of that._

John lost Sherlock once before. And by some miracle (well, maybe calling Mycroft a “miracle” is a bit much), he got him back. He knows he would be foolish to ruin it now, to let a once-in-a-lifetime second chance slip by because he’s too stubborn to seize it. He can feel his anger beginning to ebb, giving way to some semblance of understanding. He is still furious about the drugs, furious at Sherlock for turning in on himself anytime he is in pain, for retreating deeper and deeper into his own mind instead of reaching out to his friends.

_What friends? You mean the one who accused him of killing his wife and then cut off all contact?_

John sighs deeply. _Yes ok, I get it._ He knows a lost battle when he sees it.

Having resolved to forgive Sherlock for using, John’s mind turns to the other matter at hand. If he’s honest with himself, the drug use wasn’t overly surprising. But Sherlock’s sudden proclamation was another thing entirely. Love? Did Sherlock even know what the word meant?

Of course John knows that Sherlock has emotions, that he feels fear and pain, joy and excitement. He knows that Sherlock’s constant declarations about being a “high-functioning sociopath” are a defense mechanism, a way to keep those around him at arm’s length, where they can’t hurt him. But love, at least in a romantic sense, isn’t an emotion John thinks he’s seen in Sherlock’s repertoire.

_Maybe that’s because you didn’t want to see it. Because if you did, you might have to acknowledge your own feelings._

John fixes his gaze on Sherlock’s icy blue eyes, searching for any clue that this might be one of his cruel games. It wouldn’t be the first time he had feigned love as part of some ulterior motive. But despite his skepticism, all John can read in Sherlock’s face is an almost desperate sincerity, a plea that he be taken seriously.

And so John does.


	3. The Linguistics of Love

“What do you mean by that?” John’s voice is light and gives no hint to the thoughts behind his words.

Sherlock is acutely aware that he is not an expert in human relationships; nevertheless he is taken aback by John’s response. He’s not sure what the normal response to “I love you” is, but he’s fairly certain it isn’t this.

“I would have thought that obvious.” He winces slightly at how condescending the words sound. “I mean that I love you,” he adds softly.

John studies him intently for a moment, his expression unchanged. “Right, I heard you the first time. What I’m asking is, what does that word mean to you? ‘Love’?”

Sherlock backs away from John’s chair slightly, repositioning himself so that he can look directly at John without craning his neck, and more importantly, buy himself some time to consider his response.  _ What does love mean to me? Really? I finally let John know how I feel about him and he responds by requesting a semantic analysis? _

Sherlock considers struggling through the narcotic haze currently enveloping him to develop a treatise on the meaning of love, but promptly abandons the thought. He’s fairly certain he couldn’t spell ‘love’ right now, let alone define it with any degree of nuance.

“Love means different things to different people across different cultures”, he manages. “But universally, it’s a positive sentiment.”

At this, John lets slip a reluctant laugh. “You twit, I know the definition of the word. I’m asking what it means to  you. What does you loving someone look like? Feel like?” He sighs deeply, looking unfathomably tired once more. “God, I don’t know Sherlock. I’m just trying to figure out what on earth is going on right now.”

Sherlock can admit to himself that he has never given much thought to the question of what love means to him. He doubts he’d be able to come up with a coherent answer anyway. Why waste precious mental energy trying to define the undefinable?

What he does know, and what he believes comes close enough to encompassing the meaning of love, is that he’d like to spend the rest of his life with John. Loathe as he is to admit it, he craves intimacy - though perhaps of a sort that wouldn’t be recognizable as such to most people. Those small moments when his life and John’s gracefully merge together into a shared existence; quiet afternoons in the flat with John puttering around while Sherlock is absorbed in case research, exhilarating chases across London, adrenaline pumping through their veins, danger heightening their every sense.

Sherlock can also admit to himself that he wants more. He suspects that emotional and physical intimacy with John might calm his mind in a far healthier way than the heroin does.  _Probably best to leave that out of your explanation_ ,  he reasons. _“I would like to replace my drug addiction with you” is hardly romantic._

“Well, for starters, it means I would like for you to move back in,” Sherlock begins tentatively. He pauses a moment, leaving space for John to say something. Sensing that no response is forthcoming, he continues. “I don’t entirely know what love means to me, John. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, it is not an emotion I have much experience with. But I do know that having you near me has rather become a priority in my life, and that your absence causes no small amount of distress.”

John squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the disappointment prickling at the back of his mind. “Missing me isn’t the same as loving me, Sherlock.”

“It’s more than just missing you.” Sherlock says quietly.  _ I need you. Isn’t this whole situation proof enough of that?  _ “I can’t imagine my life - present or future - without you.”  _ And I don’t want to. _

John’s expression softens. The disappointment begins to fade from his mind, replaced by the faintest glimmer of hope. “So for you, love means being flatmates for all eternity?”, he asks, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. After everything Sherlock has put him through, John figures it’s only fair that Sherlock be forced to explicitly ask for whatever it is he wants.

Sherlock frowns. It’s quite unlike John to be intentionally obtuse. Unintentionally, sure, but Sherlock is certain that his friend knows what he means and is simply refusing to make things easy for him.  _Fair enough_ ,  he thinks ruefully.  _ You probably deserve that. _

“I believe I prefaced that request with ‘for starters’. Though for the record, yes I would like you to be my flatmate ‘for all eternity’, as you so eloquently put it.” Sherlock is thrilled when he finally manages to draw a small smile from John. “But of course that’s not the full extent of it. I just thought it might be easiest to start out where we left off, before -“  _ Before Mary. _ Sherlock pauses as the full weight of his words hits him.  _ Why can’t you ever just stop talking? Isn’t that what got Mary killed in the first place? _

“Before Mary.” John finishes simply. His expression is once again unreadable.

A heavy silence enshrouds them, punctuated only the muffled sounds of the busy street below.

“I am truly so sorry, John. I never meant for that to happen.”

“I know, Sherlock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two very important notes about this chapter: 
> 
> 1.) When I did my half-ass proof, I caught this delightful typo: “...adrenaline pumpkins through their veins...” 
> 
> 2.) It appears I’m incapable of writing chapters longer than ~800 words. Apologies.


	4. The Many Meanings of Milk

John sighs. He knows it’s unfair to make Sherlock explain the exact dimensions of his feelings for John, particularly while he’s high, and particularly when John isn’t sure he could adequately describe his own feelings. And yet, despite this uncertainty, he finds himself wordlessly agreeing with Sherlock. Whatever the true nature of his feelings, “love” does seem the best way to describe them. He’s just not sure it’s the same “love” he’s experienced in previous relationships.

He stands up abruptly, startling Sherlock. John stifles a laugh, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Hmm. Not sure I’ve ever seen you jump like that.”

“I am very high, John.”

“I know, Sherlock.” John takes a deep breath. “Right. I need tea.” His body moves toward the kitchen on its own accord, his tea-making routine so rote as to render his mind superfluous. He can feel Sherlock’s questioning gaze following his every movement, unsure of how to react to John’s sudden departure from his chair.

“I assume you still take your tea the same way?” He glances at Sherlock, who has not moved from his spot on the floor. He looks a bit dazed.

It takes Sherlock a moment to respond. “Can you add extra sugar, please?”

John chuckles. “I’m not sure what’s more surprising, that you need even more sugar in your tea than usual when you’re high, or that you just used the word ‘please’”.

“We both know it’s the latter.” Sherlock meets John’s eyes, and they share a small smile.

John’s hands move without direction from his brain, mindlessly going through the motions of making tea.  _Fill the kettle, pull out a couple of mugs, find the tea bags and sugar._ Everything, of course, is in its usual place, which doesn’t surprise John. What does surprise him is that there is a carton of unexpired milk in the fridge, perched on a mercifully empty shelf, no body parts in sight.

“You have milk?”

Sherlock stares at him as if he’s grown another head. “Yes,” he draws it out. “I’m sorry, is that a statement or a question?”

John shrugs. “Both, I guess. I’m just surprised. You’re not exactly good about making sure there’s potable milk in the fridge at the best of times, and this -“ he gestures aboutvaguely “- is hardly the best of times.”

John is slightly alarmed when he notices a faint blush blossom across Sherlock’s face. He looks... guilty?

“Oh god, what did you do to it?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I swear. It is perfectly normal, safe-to-consume, unexpired milk.” Sherlock hesitates, unsure whether to offer an explanation.

John makes the decision for him. “Ok, explain.”

“Explain why I have milk in the fridge? John, what kind of question is that?” The deepening red in his cheeks belies his affronted tone.

“No, you git. Explain why you look like I just found a mountain of racy magazines under you bed, when in fact I just found milk.” John struggles to keep a straight face.  _ That is definitely not a sentence I ever thought I’d say. _

“Seeing as you are unlikely to ever find such compromising reading materials in my possession, I suppose I just needed to find something else to be embarrassed about” Sherlock mumbles.

John waits for a real answer.

“Ok, fine. I have been regularly drinking tea since you left, and as you know, I prefer it with milk, so...” By now, Sherlock has turned an absolutely fascinating shade of crimson.

“You - you’ve been making yourself tea?” John realizes he is the most surprised he has been all day.  _ Not sure how to feel about that. _

“Oh, do shut up. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

Once John starts laughing, he finds he can’t stop.  _ Jesus Christ, what is going on here?  _ “I know, I know,” John pauses as another wave of laughter overtakes him. “It’s just, it is  _ so _ normal, and you -“

“Are not. I know.” An almost imperceptible sadness clouds Sherlock’s face.

The change in his expression is not lost on John. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just surprised, that’s all.” He gives Sherlock a reassuring smile. “And just to make sure that I’m getting all the way through to your drug-addled mind, I want to clarify that it’s a pleasant surprise.”

Sherlock returns John’s smile tentatively, but there’s a lingering sadness in the depth of his eyes.

The kettle begins to whistle frantically. John deftly removes it from the stovetop, fills the two mugs, adds the sugar - including an unholy five tablespoons’ worth for Sherlock - and tops each mug off with a dash of that miraculously unexpired milk.  Returning to the sitting room, he hesitates. Sherlock is still seated on the floor in front of John’s chair. “Shall I -“ John gestures toward the small table next to Sherlock’s chair.

“You can just set it here on the floor. I quite like it down here.”

John raises an eyebrow, but complies wordlessly before settling back into his own chair.

“So,” John starts, hoping his mind will quickly fill in the rest of the sentence. It doesn’t.

“Mmm.” Sherlock gives a noncommittal hum, evidently as unsure as John is about how to continue their conversation.

John distracts himself with his tea, taking a moment to lose himself in the comforting plumes of steam and the pleasant warmth radiating from the mug into his hands. Sitting in his old chair, across from his old friend, in his old flat - it all feels so familiar, so grounding. It feels like home. 

John clears his throat lightly, breaking the silence. “You’re serious about wanting me to move back in then?” John doesn’t doubt the sincerity of Sherlock’s request, but it still seems too good to be true. 

“Yes. Of course!” There’s a note of surprise in Sherlock’s voice, which is quickly replaced by indignation. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Ok, good. Well, uhm. I guess I will move back in then.”

“I - wait, what?” Sherlock seems genuinely taken aback by John’s response.

“Well, there’s nothing left for me at home”  _ except for the constant reminders of Mary _ “and besides, the place is way too big for only one person.” He pauses. “So really, it’s the only sensible thing to do.”

Sherlock studies him intently, eyes narrowed, searching for any sign that John is messing with him. Satisfied that that is not the case, his expression softens.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I love you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that settled, we’ll give Sherlock a few days to sober up before revisiting the whole “love” thing again.


End file.
